The camp is simple–a few makeshift tarpaulin beds stripped between wooden beams and under the cover of a corrugated iron roof. But the background trickling of a nearby waterfall mingling with the cacophony of birds and cicadas makes it almost seem luxurious.
We are 7 km into a 40 km round-trip reccy for an expedition I have planned for next year. We are working our way into the very heart of Danum Valley Conservation Area, reopening and marking a rarely used trail as we go.
Danum Valley probably represents the most important and pristine tract of lowland dipterocarp forest left in South East Asia. Its highest point, Mount Danum (Gunung Danum in Malay) is the purpose of our journey.
Sitting at just 1100 metres, it comes nowhere close to being the most glamorous, highest, or treacherous of mountains. When we get to the top the day after tomorrow we will only be able to tell by glancing at the altitude reading on our GPS. There will be no view. It’s blanketed in forest.
But by God it’s got me excited.
The plan next year is to return with a team of scientists and carry out shotgun biodiversity surveys on this little-explored peak. The plan this year is to scout out the trail, look for good camping spots, and get an idea of what the forest is like.
We head into the jungle at what my guides are quick to call “a Malaysian 8.30,”–or at around 9.40 am. I meet with the three Danum Valley Forest Rangers at the bridge into the old-growth forest.
Osou is the most experienced ranger, clad in full lycra and with a sports towel draped around his neck. Yoel is a 22 years old with a top-knot who was so merry on rice wine the last time we met that I don’t think he recognises me at all. Hamza is the most thickset of the trio, carrying a 20kg rucksuck filled with rice and camera traps.
The rice, of course, is for us. The camera traps are to put up near any wallows we happen across — although almost certainly extinct in Danum, its forests are still large and connected enough that they might still host a Sumatran rhino or two.
Before we even leave, it’s already been a wildlife-filled morning. I wake up to a red-leaf monkey scratching its balls underneath the washing line and checking out its reflection in the window outside my room.
As I stand on the bridge waiting for the guys to arrive, a crayon-like punch of colour darts across the sky and then comes to rest on a nearby branch–a stork billed kingfisher. That just before five smooth-clawed otters tumble out of the tangle of riverside vegetation and start playing around on the beach below, stretching out on the rocks and bobbing their heads up and down in the water.
And then, when less than 200 m into the forest, the four of us come across a mum and baby orangutan, I can tell it’s going to be a good trip.
The walk is fairly easy– significantly less so for Hamza, who lags at the back, hefting along the rice and camera traps like an ox. The real challenge will come tomorrow when we cross Peirut river. From there, we will climb eleven kilometres over rough forest terrain to a camp near the base of Mount Danum. Just writing that last sentence makes me tingle with excitement.
It’s almost pitch black now. I write this under the flickering light of a candle fixed by wax onto the top of a tin of Ayam Brand sardines. When I blow it out, it will be completely dark. Nothing but the croak of frogs, the whistle of birds and insects and the faint flow of the waterfall. That, and the ecstatic thoughts bouncing around my head. Tomorrow, we head deeper into the forest!
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